Eleven years ago, on this exact same day, we were driving to my parents’ place. I was crying and asking Hubby if this was the fastest he could go. I remember him saying something along the lines of “us getting there faster wouldn’t change the fact”. My father had taken his life.
As I sit here today, I can’t help but wonder if my old man would still be around if he hadn’t decided to leave us on that day. Would he be healthy? Would he travel with us like my mother is now doing? How would it be between us? Would we now be able to say to each other, seriously, how much we loved one another or would we still play those silly games we had of never quite saying it straight out?
I miss him. A lot. The pain of losing my father isn’t burning like it used to, and yet, it’s still there. This little pinch I feel every so often, out of nowhere, reminding me he is no longer, physically, here. I know he’s moved on. At least, I hope so. His memory is still very present, in my heart. He was my father; I was his girl. We loved each other, and this despite our strange ways. I don’t have regrets. He knew I loved him and accepted his decision. I wish I could hear him say my name one more time... to feel his soft lips on my cheeks… today I miss my dad.